I Am Not a Resource. Trust Me.

I had to break into the conference room on this one. They didn’t invite me because they’re trying to keep me in the good favor with the human resources department. The last art director was a real pain in their asses, from what I’ve been told, in only and so many words. “Don’t be like Kathryn,” my boss told me. “She was a real pain in the ass with the human resources department.”

But I don’t know how I can manage that. I’ve always been the bane of the human resources managers, and they’ve always been a can of liars to me. Human resources managers are trained in occupational courses at bad colleges to do what they do: practiced fleecing and wool-pulling in measured amounts. Anyone without a soul can do it, but what really sets human resources managers apart is their efforts in correspondence course empathy and patience. They have to do that in order to hold off opportunistic and aggressive employees bent on calling their lawyers.

They’ve never done any other job in any other department of any corporation they’ve been in. They’re trained specifically for this role, and they get in on it young. Getting in on it young is the first problem. No one they ever have to deal with got in on it young. We worked for our careers. We bussed tables or sold computers or drove trucks or picked up other people’s garbage while we were fine tuning the complete crap on our resume into something worth printing and handing to a run-down temporary agency in a temporary office in some decrepit office plaza next to the closed dollar store and the movie theater where people get shot or laid. We got our first jobs and busted our asses and kissed those of others and tried to make it seem like working from 7:30 to 7 every day for 8 bucks an hour is the best thing that ever happened to us, just so we could learn to suck up to the next human resources tool, usually younger than us, sitting there all prim and proper with hands folded and desk organized, listening to us beg to be hired by their corporation, which pays 50 cents more on the hour and might this time have a department manager whose lifelong dream might not appear this time to be to break me into little pieces for the cleaning crew to remove in the middle of the night, quiet and easy.

Human resources managers are inherently evil and destructive, and they enjoy it. They appear naïve and formal, but they know all your tricks before you think of them and have crib notes pinned to the insides of their eyelids. They are highly trained soul assassins. Their department title is, or would be, to any rational person, a perfect oxymoron, but anyone approaching a conversation or confrontation with a human resources manager thinking too much about the human part and not enough about the resources part is begging to be flattened, spit on and laughed at later over drinks at the mahogony bar.

I burst in the door and got a glare from my boss. I put my finger to my mouth to indicate that she should shut the fuck up about it, and to imply that so will I. I sat down. They were discussing one of my employees, and I’m not a blood-sucking thief. I have this inappropriate urge, whenever I’m managing people, to look out for them as best I can.

That’s not to say I don’t understand the role of a manager, which was explained to me by my father years ago, which is to represent the needs and wishes of the company to his staff, and to get as much productivity out of them, in as kind and reasonable a fashion as possible, given the corporate strictures passed down to me from my superiors. Such is the task of the middle manager.

This one I had met once before. Her name was Debbie. I was attending a big divisional meeting at corporate headquarters in New Jersey. The meeting was MC’ed by the division VP. It took about an hour for him to go over new hires and to go over sales numbers from the previous year. How we did and how we’re going to do. The company was on top of the market share. It was doing very well. Everyone clapped. Even I clapped, even though one of the reasons that the VP cited for 2004’s success was “holding off on new hires,” which didn’t mean not filling positions, but instead, as they did with me, it meant keeping me employed by a temporary agency while I personally managed an entire site, 3 managers and 30 employees. I still clapped. I was hogtied. They had all the money and I had all the hunger.

Debbie approached me after the meeting to introduce herself. She knew who I was because I had to stand when they announced my name as a new hire (even though I still wasn’t, nor would I be for another month and a half). She introduced herself with a huge smile. She didn’t have much to say after the introduction. She just sort of stood there as if her telling me who she was was enough for me to commence in an ass-kissing speech. She was very small and a very cute little thing. I could have thrown her across the room. Probably could have sent her all the way to the podium, with a huge microphone boom. But that’s not how to do away with human resources managers. You have to stamp them out in a dark corner like they want to do to you.

But now listening to her on the other end of the 10-year-old speaker phone, I realized I was wrong. I should have killed her when I had the chance. Someone needed to, still does. She certainly seems the perfect option for a date rape assault – cute and stupid, and she’d definitely not keep her mouth shut long enough during the thing to keep the villain from slitting her throat just to keep her quiet. It was a long shot, but I had to hang my hat on something. She was dismantling my spirit.

But in the meantime I had to listen to her try to destroy my staff. Her use of doublespeak made it very hard for me to keep quiet. I couldn’t follow a damn thing that she was saying, but everyone else kept saying, “yeah, yes,” “no, yeah, I understand.” It was like having someone explain that they’re going to have to pull your tonsils out through your asshole. I wanted to stop her on every word. Every word was wrong. She was going to pull our tonsils out through our assholes and she was going to use a steam shovel to do it. But they were all buying it. Either they werent paying attention or they were all stupid or, what I really think is that they were all scared. Human resources affects everyone, not just staff. This 24-year-old little bitch holds not only the fate of my staff in her hands, but also mine and that of every manager all the way up the line. The reason my boss doesn’t want me to piss them off is because she wants to keep me around. That’s because I’m making her life easier, and she fears that situation changing. But the reason she won’t argue herself is because she fears for her job. We don’t consult human resources in order to make our jobs easier, we consult them to keep our fear in check long enough to not piss them off by making our own decisions.

I tried to say something before the call ended, but my boss made it as clear as she could with the look in her eyes that my job was on the line. I had to keep quiet and stay in the background for as long as possible. Debbie had just handed down judgment on someone. It was an evil task to pass that message along. Even Debbie knew it was evil. She wouldn’t even give us the message in writing. That was no mistake. Human resources managers will break the rules in order to survive, just like everyone else. They’re like cops running red lights or showing their badge during a bar fight to avoid having their own justice served. You cant respect people like that, even though you have to.

- posted by seanmh @ 10:26 AM

 
Now Onto Something Completely Different

The general perception is that movies and visual media in general are eclipsing books as a form of entertainment. Well, one thing that's not changing is the fact that most good movies or, at least, most movies acclaimed by the socio-economic structure of Hollywood, the grand dictator of our visual taste, are made from books.

Article

The good idea makers are still in literature, not in Hollywood. The original thinkers are still in literature, not in film studios.

The internet is a great bastion of democracy. Mediocrity, yeah. The more you have of something, the worse the average is going to be. That's true everywhere but in the bedroom, or in the bar, usually. Well, it's at least true on the internet.

Despite the obvious fact that writers still have most of the good ideas these days, as they have for decades, for centuries, it's sure to become more obvious over the next several years that one of their (our) bad ideas was the idea that the internet could revolutionalize literature.

Unfortunately, what happened is that the way the internet works has made us think that writing is going down the crapper. But it's not! It's not too late!

Now what literature needs is a revolution to take it back from the internet, take it back from the democracy that has turned much of it into something immediate and pandering. We were looking for a revolution, well, we found it. We need to get away from thinking that great writing can be conveyed in sound bites and sight bites and these little pixels of misrepresentation and chaos.

The internet is a great medium, but simply not great for the sublime nature of great writing, of great ideas.

Crap! This has become another diatribe. I told myself that that wasnt going to happen, and here we are. Well, oh well. There you have it. I'll try to be nicer next time.

- posted by seanmh @ 3:05 PM

 
Wrap-Up

The last post on this subject...

The owner of litkicks refuses to take my post down because he "doesnt like being bossed around." The issue is over. I'm not going to rail on with them. And since I cant post anything without submitting it first, the issue dies quietly, like a genius hobo in the bushes.

Writers beware, litkicks is about them, not you.

Litkicks, rest in peace, you shooting star. Hate to see you go like this, but, really, you've been gone a while.

On to other things! Bring on the literary revolution! Bring on literary relevance!

- posted by seanmh @ 12:05 PM

 
Flames, Crashes and the Indecency of Stopping Words

I’m really not going to harp on this whole thing, but I think a follow-up is warranted.

Actually, no it’s not. I’ll be brief. Right now I’m in an email exchange with the owner of the site, who still has as of yet refused to take down my post, despite my objections, and STILL despite the fact that the error of the comma remains. Apparently they are more concerned with possibly offensive puns than they are with typos in the titles of posts. That right there pretty much sums it up.

I woke up in the middle of the night last night to the banging away at old PC keyboard by my lover and beautiful wifey. She couldn’t sleep. She’s off her schedule. She exhausted herself most of the day, slept all evening and early night, and then was forced out of bed by alertness and the need to put words to paper. This is one of the many great and worthy reasons that I love her. However, when she woke me up I was, mostly, still asleep, and I asked her what the fuck she was doing. She finished, took a Benadryl, and came back to bed.

What a fucking heel I am!

I shouted at a construction worker on the way to work – he was blocking my way down the road because of something with cranes and trucks and powerlines. The bastard wouldn’t let me pass. I had to spin my car and take another route. This was was blocked by traffic caused by, I eventually found out, a bunch of idiots rear-ending a car that had stopped, safely he thought, behind a truck turning left.

People are probably more distracted in their cars these days in these parts than they used to be. Howard Stern was banished from his local carrier because he kept mentioning satellite radio on his program. That happened in late December. Last week, the other syndicated morning show carried locally was axed without explanation. They were from Indianapolis and their names, ostensibly, were Bob and Tom. Wifey is from Indy, so I gave them a shot after Howard was cut. They were pretty funny. They focused on comedians in town. They laughed too much at their guests’ jokes, but it was a livable option. I cant listen to music in the morning. It’s just not in my conditioned behavior to do so.

And I only recently started listening to Stern. I think it was because he was talking about politics so much, and the FCC, two issues near and dear to me and my personal philosophy that anyone who can fuck you will fuck you. He was enjoyable and put together a high-quality program of humor and talk, even though often the humor was a bit too pandering for my taste.

So now people here are too busy scanning their radio dials for something to listen to that they cant pay attention to stopped cars in front of them.

If people around here knew how to drive, it wouldn’t be so bad, but that’s fodder for another day. Peace out, losers and winners alike. I wish you all the best. Some because you deserve it and some because you need it. Just make it work for you.

- posted by seanmh @ 9:49 AM

 
The Decomposition of Litkicks, or

I am not your typy monkey!

Let me take a few moments to discuss the once great and now late Litkicks.com.

I don’t know how broad their appeal was in their heyday, but I do know that, still, if you do a search in Google for Jack Kerouac, Litkicks.com will be one of if not the first site returned.

It used to be a conglomerate of message boards, well-designed in java and providing an infinitely welcoming feel for newcomers, intermediates and veterans alike. There was a board for discussing what people were reading, one for discussing politics, one for discussing the literary life, one about traveling/road literature and writing. One for talking about writers and genres. There was a haiku board, a story board, a spontaneous poetry board and a composed poetry board. There was even a board called “Mindless Chatter,” which was essentially an extended chat room for bored temps, angry young people, and aging hippies in cubicles or living rooms across the world. And there was also a flames board where, for the most part, members kept their vitriolic remarks, and even had a bit of fun about it. The focus, at least in theory, was on Beat writers, but members came from all walks of literature, and discussions abounded about everyone from Ayn Rand to Orwell, Harry Potter to John Fowles. It was great fun.

Late in 2003, Litkicks came out with a writing contest called the Quest. With everything otherwise rolling along smoothly, this new venture was created from a position of strength. Over a hundred members and newfolk ponied up 20 bucks apiece to join a month-long effort in writing exercises, and then voted for one another’s writing. Winners advanced to another round, where 6 writers were chosen as overall winners. The deal was, winners would be featured in an upcoming anthology of writing from the site. Yay! I should mention at this point that I was one of the winners.

The Quest was by and large a success. Litkicks then proceeded to continue these writing challenges, only now without “winners.” They also proceeded to organize their anthology. In order to populate this upcoming tome, they asked all members to provide nominations for pieces to include in the book. What democracy! Yay! Lots of people had things to say about this, and the nominations filled up quickly. Many of us were hardpressed to choose only the maximum of three nominations among the perhaps thousands of works of poetry, prose, essay, opinion or discussions posted to the site over the years. But we did it.

Then the editors went into a sort of seclusion. Nominations were considered, as well as the opinions of each of the three editors, who included the owner of the site and two former mere members who had generously volunteered their time to help manage and police the sprawling literary community.

Writers were told that they’d be contacted as the book choices were finalized and publication approached. What we actually received were mass emails to each selected writer asking for a brief bio. The editors expressly kept the choices to themselves, saying just that we’ll be surprised and that we’re sure to like the result.

Months went by. Then, during the summer of 2004, Litkicks suddenly shut down. The message boards, few of which went more than 15 minutes at any given time during the 24 hour day without activity, were disabled. Posts appeared by staff that Litkicks was taking a haitus. Hundreds of temps, amateur writers, angry young people, and aging and easily confused hippies were left to fend for themselves.

Litkicks returned in October 2004 with “October Earth,” a series of “questions” that created a more focused discussion. It wasn’t bad. But the first obvious change was that, now, if you wanted to post something, it didn’t appear immediately as in the previous version of the site. It was “submitted” to the editors first, who did what they felt they should do before actually posting it.

Then October ended, and Litkicks recreated itself officially in the same vein as October Earth, which is how it stands now. Every other day or so, one of the three editors/staff posts a question or a topic, and members respond (submit). Sometimes, it takes hours for a response to show up. Even minor comments about these responses are submitted, and can take hours to show up. Understandable, the staff has day jobs. But no one but them demanded the new format, which effectively sucked the spontaneity, which was the crux of the Litkicks experience, out of the thing, rendering it immediately stale and boring. They also began to censor writers based on content. Personally, my first experience on this was the day after the 2004 elections, when we were asked about our feelings about Bush having won another term. I responded with this:

America is stupid and I'm never voting again. Fuck Bush. Fuck the morons who voted for him.

As I drove to work this morning, passing elementary school busstops, I thought about how all those nice little children will make such good soldiers.

Live it up, morons. As sweet as it was, I'd have sacrificed the Red Sox victory, indirectly over that other Texan asshole, Roger Clemens, to have someone in the White House who can tie his own shoes.

I still stand behind those comments 100%. But the staff refused to post it, citing “name-calling” and “diatribes.” That may be the case (actually, it certainly is). But it's also the honest, spontaneous post by a veteran member of the site known for usually thoughtful and productive remarks. Is no quarter given?

I then embarked on a several week long haitus from the thing. I was upset; their reasons for denying my opinion seemed petty and pandering to the lowest common demoninator of literary thought, those who get offended too easily, so easily that honest, spontaneous opinions are sacrificed for the sake of pleasantries.

At about this same time, the Litkicks book came out. For many, it was a surprise. My fiancee had a piece in the book, yay, but it wasn’t either of the two that were nominated by other members. It was a more personal essay about drug addiction. Moving and powerful, certainly one of her best works. Another member had a work published that discussed in emotional detail the alcoholism of her husband. She had been excited for months that she was going to be published, but that was because all she knew was that she was going to be published. Once she saw what had been chosen, she ran into a massive family struggle because what she had written was too personal a thing for her to be boasting about, something all writers naturally want to do upon first publication of their work.

For myself, as a winner of the Quest, two of my four or five Quest pieces were published, in amongst dozens of other Quest writings, only a fraction of which were from the “winners.” The Quest winners werent featured at all, merely included.

Another key point is that, since the writers didn’t know which one of their pieces was being published, they had no input regarding how the pieces were to appear. It is standard practice to provide proofs and editing information to writers before publishing their work. It is also standard practice on a literary website to publish unfinished works, for feedback and guidance in their completion. It’s actually rare for writers to post the final product.

It’s understandable that Litkicks wanted to capture the essence of this new form, internet writing. In a way, they did this. But, in the manner that they did this, they destroyed a worthy tradition in literature, one that I feel deserves to be preserved regardless of medium, that the writer should control his words. Regardless of copyrights, contracts or disclaimers, writers should be (and usually are) given the privilege of consultation on the editing of their work. And the website contained hundreds of posts from hundreds if not thousands of writers. Some more composed than others, some written as throw-aways, some meant to be personal. Most members don’t even use their own names as identification on the site. They employ usernames, one large advantage of which is that this keeps their spontaneous, not-meant-for-public-consumption writing anonymous, and keeps it away from the possibility of creating undesired consequences in their daily lives. Writers did have the option of not being published, but if they supplied their bios to the staff, they still had no idea which one or two of the hundreds of posts were going to be used. Suddenly each thought they’d posted over the years was on one level of consideration. Throw-away diatribes were given the same consideration as composed works of prose. For some, this didn’t work out.

And now, I’ve just been edited again. Because I responded to a question about diaries with the subject line “Diary, ah”, to express a thoughtful response, and also to pun diarrhea, because, really, isnt that what diaries are? My response was formed around the idea that most of what comes out of diaries is useless, but every once in a while something can be gained from it. I didn’t feel the need to expand on the metaphor, so I kept it simple and unobtrusive.

So unobtrusive, apparently, that it slipped by one editor and was posted for several hours as I wrote it. Then, suddenly, with no note or email, the “ah” was deleted (they left in the comma, making it 1. more obvious and 2. clear that it was done in haste – and anger? and 3. look like I screwed up. Creating an error during editing is a cardinal sin, I think).

My response to Litkicks on this little thing is as follows, and I think serves as a fine wrap-up to this post. The bottom line is that they devote absolutely no respect for their own writers, treating them like conditional (tho willing) slaves to their own means. And I think this time I’m really done. I don't have anything personally against the staff, particularly the owner of the site. In fact, I've met him, and he's a very cool person, a great writer, and someone who I essentially respect. But the direction of the site is horrible, it's offending to writers (at least to this one), and well, and that's pretty much it.

I'd prefer, if you're going to edit anything I write beyond typos, that you consult with me first. You seem to take your roles as editors a little too seriously. If that's the case, you could at least afford the writers the same importance you provide yourself.

I think it's indicative of your approach to writers, actually. To publish the serious work of writers without even letting them know what you were publishing is, at least to me, pretty much immoral. It's not about you, it's about the words, and the writers own the words, despite whatever disclaimer you provide. Even tho that's a sidebar, I think it demonstrates a critical error in judgment on your part.

Anyway, it's probably better to just remove my entire post, seeing as it doesnt stand as I sent it.. If I had received the courtesy of a conversation or a message about what you found so horribly offensive, then maybe I'd approve of my copy being displayed here. Unfortunately, you've violated MY terms of service.

I suggest you lighten up a bit. If not, you're only going to keep the idiots and hacks. It's bad enough you've sucked the spontaneity out of this once beautiful place, but do you really have to dictate an entire community to your specific taste?

I mean, seriously, as my son would say, have you people lost your noodles? Chill out and smile a bit, yo.

- posted by seanmh @ 12:49 PM

 
Something Strange Bubbling Up

By all accounts of normal humanity I shouldn’t feel as good this morning as I do. Last night I went and bought a 750 ml bottle of Wild Turkey, and drank about a quarter of it. I don’t drink much, and rarely drink bourbon. Maybe the reason I feel better than I expected to is because I also smoked a bowl of weed. Maybe it’s also because I put down about 700 words in my notebook about my new upcoming novelization of the madness in my life for the last 2 years.

But I do feel great. I feel like leaping around the room. I woke up this morning feeling better than I have in perhaps three and a half years. The last time I can even suggest to myself that I’ve felt this way was when I left my wife and began my life on my terms. Unfortunately, much of the potentially pure glee that I could have felt upon starting my life with my real and true and love partner was countered by the fact that my children were being ripped from my arms at the time. That’s not to say that there wasn’t glee, because I’ve never been happier than when I’m with her. But this isnt just being happy, this is being in a good mood, a great mood, which is another thing entirely.

Something Mr. Dylan wrote:

Seen a shooting star tonight
And I thought of you.
You were trying to break into another world
A world I never knew.
I always kind of wondered
If you ever made it through.
Seen a shooting star tonight
And I thought of you.

Seen a shooting star tonight
And I thought of me.
If I was still the same
If I ever became what you wanted me to be
Did I miss the mark or
Over-step the line
That only you could see?
Seen a shooting star tonight
And I thought of me.

I feel wonderful. Do you understand? I am a writer. I am a man. I am a lover and a father and a thinker. I feel reborn. I don’t know what’s come over me. It must have been the weed.

In a way, it’s completely not right for me to make the death of Hunter S. Thompson into something about me. But what else can I do, really? Isnt everything about me? Your world may not revolve around me, but mine does, if I’m honest about it, and I do choose honesty. The beauty of this human truth is that, by acknowledging that my world does indeed revolve around me, I embrace those around me who really mean something to me, to my world. And I know them because of who they are to me but I love them because I know them. Love of self and love of others isnt a mutually exclusive proposition. I can have both. And I do.

Part of what is making me so fucking happy is the realization that I can speak the truths of life. Perhaps I’ve realized that I don’t need to (since I no longer can) rely on others to speak the truth for me. How energizing was it for me to read Mr. Thompson write about the truth in politics or people or sport or fear or hate? Very. Well, he’s not here to do that anymore. But I have this sudden burst of FAITH IN HUMANITY, that even amongst the hate-mongers and the blind faith followers and the lost hopes in this world, I KNOW there are a few who can see and feel and hear and smell and write. And this gives me hope, and this brings me happiness.

I’ve had one of the best 12 hours of my life just now, and I’m not about to throw myself off the train. I’m going to write more often. I’m going to not be afraid to make myself feel good, more often. I’m going to speak my mind and fucking take names. I’m going to live my life my way. If you like it, then invite me into your orbit. If not, fuck off, because I’m righter than you. I’m writer than you. And my path to the truth will have its casualties, at least in my world.

- posted by seanmh @ 10:25 AM

 


(Images and note lifted from www.gonzo.org)

- posted by seanmh @ 4:13 PM

 
Mid-day Thoughts

2:49 p.m.; the soma is starting to take effect. To make work possible, I'm also digesting 2 exedrines, mostly for the caffeine, if not also for the mild association with my long-lost vicodin.

How better to salute the master than to gently Imbibe?

Tonite, however, there will be nothing gentle about it.

I'm transcribing here now my fictionalized account of the phone conversation between my lovely Julie and her mother only hours ago:

"Hi, Mom; have you seen the news this morning? Did you hear that Hunter Thompson died? He killed himself."

"Oh I didnt hear that. Who was he again?"

"Jesus, Mom, he's my favorite writer. I've been talking about him for the past 20 years. I'm really upset about this."

"I'm sorry, dear. Did the news say why he did it?"

"BECAUSE HE'S A WRITER, MOM! Listen, I have to go."

click.

"OK, I love you, dear. Thanks for calling."

- posted by seanmh @ 2:54 PM

 
R.I.P. HST

I feel like drinking myself stupid tonight. Because the only voice left in America that made me feel good about not being stupid has shot himself in the face.

This has been a hard year for writers. Iris Chang killed herself, as did the California writer who broke the evil CIA in South America story. John Gregory Dunne died. So did Susan Sontag.

And now Hunter S. Thompson has gone. Never have I felt it more apt to say that someone has left us behind.

Yesterday my fiancee and I were laughing out loud about the scene in "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" where HST, played by Depp, was trying to step off the spinning bar. We decided it was probably time to see the movie again. I said that the first time I saw it, I probably had too high expectations, as I had just finished the book.

Hunter S. Thompson is my longest-running cool writer. He was cool when I was 12 and would read Rolling Stone magazine in the school library. He was cool when I was 15 and realized that Doonesbury's Duke was for real. He was cool when I was 19 and feeling political. He was cool after I had discovered Kerouac, and realized how influential he had been. Thompson was cool when the worst thing in the world was the decline of baseball, and he wrote his ESPN column, and he was cool when things got worse.

Hunter S. Thompson may be called the Keith Richards of literature, having endured epic chemical self abuse (not to mention being fucking cool). But his were the most compelling, honest, and liberating views that I've ever read, and he had the non-stop no-bullshit chops to express those views in ways that made me laugh and cry and think and feel moreso than any writer I've ever read, and I've read a few.

R.I.P. you son of a bitch. You left us too soon. What are we supposed to do now?

- posted by seanmh @ 12:13 PM